


Taking Exception

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As a rule, Lestrade doesn't do office parties</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Exception

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2010.

As a rule, Lestrade doesn't do office parties. They take time, planning, and coordination, and although the team might actually be decent at the latter, they haven't _got_ the former (or any particular knack for what falls in between).

How they've ended up in a Shoreditch pub on New Year's Eve for post-case pints is anybody's guess. How John has convinced Sherlock to stay on with both Anderson and Donovan also present is the _real_ mystery. They're banged up much worse than usual: John's limp is the result of a possibly sprained ankle, as opposed to his war wounds, and Sherlock is sporting a fine row of stitches beneath his badly bruised right eye.

Lestrade buys the first round because, really, they deserve it. John nurses his pint and jokes with Donovan. Beside him, Sherlock downs his gin and tonic in three swallows, fixes Anderson with a cranky, calculating look, and opens his mouth.

"How about that snow?" Lestrade asks, and it works. Sherlock stares at him.

"Old news," he says, rattling his ice. "May I trouble you for another?"

"Sherlock," John sighs, setting a hand on his wrist. "Second round's on us. Be patient."

"It was a three-drink problem at _least_ ," Sherlock says. "Another."

"Whatever you want," Lestrade replies; Christ, _anything_ to keep him placated. By the time he gets back from the bar, Donovan is restraining Anderson and John sounds like he's talking Sherlock down from a jump. He can't help but wonder what it must look like when they're _actually_ fighting. World's deadliest lovers' spat, he reckons.

Sherlock is seething. "You know as well as I do that if he hadn't shifted—"

"Yes, but it's done now," says John, reasonably. "And the killer's caught."

"You got hurt," Sherlock mutters, the words just barely audible.

Lestrade sets the drink down in front of him.

"Bottoms up. You'll feel better. I'll get you a third, but that's it."

Unfortunately, Donovan seems to have heard.

"Since when do you care about loss of life and limb?"

Sherlock glares at her. "Since when _don't_ I?" he snaps.

"High-functioning sociopath," Anderson reminds him. "Unless _you_ haven't done your—"

"Nobody's a sociopath, and nobody needs to do any research! Sit _down_."

They do. All of them, even Anderson and Sherlock, eyes fixed warily on John.

"Thank you," John continues, and it's difficult to believe the same voice could've ordered them all out the door so he'd have been free to enjoy his pint in peace, if he'd wanted. His time in the military must have been harrowing.

Sherlock's eyes are glued to the table as he drinks.

 _I bet he scared the hell out of you the first time he did that_ , Lestrade thinks with barely concealed admiration. He wonders about the relative merits of hiring John for the sole purpose of keeping the team in line, and then thinks better of it.

"You can't have him," Sherlock says under his breath.

"Didn't think so," Lestrade says, grinning.

Donovan's got that look on her face, the one to suggest she's finally twigged.

"Oh, God," she says, turning to John. " _Really_."

John squints at her, but it doesn't take him long to work out what she means.

"Well, yeah," he says, and the hard edge of warning's back. "As a matter of fact."

Anderson looks like he's well and truly lost the plot.

"Would someone mind enlightening me—"

"Him and Freak," says Donovan. "Fucking. It's not fishing, but it's close enough."

Sherlock has squeezed his eyes shut and is leaning back against the wall.

"As long as we're not at a crime scene," John reminds her, "his name's Sherlock."

"Right," Donovan sighs, knocking back the rest of her whisky. "Forgot."

Anderson smirks. "By the look of things, it might be one soo—"

"You," Lestrade says, jerking his thumb at the door. "Get out."

Anderson gapes at him, indignant.

"But I didn't—"

"Just, _out_ ," Lestrade says. "You're not the one injured. My best to your wife."

"Piss off," says Anderson, but he stalks out. Always one to do what he's told.

John's the first one to start laughing, and, surprisingly, Donovan's the second.

"Hey, Sherlock," she says, finally. "Didn't mean it like that. Good on you."

Sherlock shakes his head, lips spreading in a slow smile.

"No," he says. "Much _better_."

Lestrade winks at John, reaching for his empty glass.

"Second round's on me, too."


End file.
